“Mark was thinking about dying?”
Gordon nodded. “Not morbid, just realistic. Every policeman thinks about dying.”
The elevator doors closed automatically and Weir watched the flickering indicator tracing upward to the penthouse floor. A man in a business suit and briefcase came out of the lobby and pushed a button. He stepped a few feet away and began to read a folded newspaper.
Gordon lowered his voice. “What I mean to say, sir, is that Mark asked for a regulation service funeral with the police chaplain to speak and burial in the police cemetery. Superintendent McDade wants your permission for an honorary motorcade, a graveside presentation of the Medal for Bravery. He’d like to invite the Cadet Glee Club to do background music, selections of your choice, or what you think Mark would like. And, of course, you should be there for the flag folding ceremony and the presentation of the honorary flag to next of kin.”
“I told you earlier, sergeant, I won’t be here for the funeral. Tell your superintendent to proceed as he sees fit and a John Grimes will be present to represent the family. He’ll understand about the flag.”
The elevator doors opened again and the man with the newspaper stepped inside. Tarbert Weir noticed to his surprise that the black sergeant’s eyes were moist, almost tearful.
“I’m sorry to have to press you at a time like this, General Weir, but I’m on orders. The superintendent asked to see you personally. He’s adamant about that. He needs your permission to televise Mark’s funeral services live. After what’s happened, he believes the city needs a show of unity, a catharsis for its emotions.”
“What?” Weir said.
“Expediency, sir. This is definitely a two-toned town. A white cop was murdered at Cabrini Green...”
“Look,” the general said, “I won’t have a circus, I won’t have a political sideshow made out of my boy’s...” He stopped and willed himself back into control. “Sergeant, I deeply appreciate everything you’ve done and told me this morning. Yes, I’ll reconsider what I just said. You can pick me up in about an hour and we might just drive downtown to see your Clarence McDade.”
“Thank you, sir. I don’t want to seem presumptuous or out of line, but we — the department, that is — think a little pomp and ceremony may make you feel better about your son. The idea is — we want to honor him, I mean.”
The general’s room on the sixth floor was a conventional cubicle with brown and white striped wallpaper, twin beds covered in a gold floral print, and a round table with two padded leather chairs. The general’s overnight bag lay on one of the beds, where he’d tossed it a few hours earlier.
A barrage of emotions was surging through his mind so that for the first time this day he felt the sting of tears in his eyes. It was Mark Weir they had been making plans for, folded flag, television, choral dirges. The dread, the unthinkable had happened and he hurt, the loss was beginning to be real.
The message button on the base of the phone was blinking but Weir went first to the hallway door and set it ajar, then dialed room service for a pot of green tea and rye toast with jam. He wanted to order a double brandy and soda, but he knew his day, and his strategy, had just begun.
The message desk reported five calls, one from Laura Devers, three from John Grimes and one from Superintendent Clarence McDade’s office. Weir wrote the names out in his square, neat hand.
In Springfield, Grimes must have been waiting near the phone because he picked it up on the first ring. His voice was emotional but subdued.
“The phone’s been ringing all morning, sir, but I put everyone else on the back burner. Mrs. Devers is pretty upset. She heard about Mark first thing. She sets her radio alarm clock to the seven o’clock news. Do you want her to drive up there? That’s what she wants. She says she’ll do anything...”
“Grimes,” he said, “tell Laura I’m all right, tell her to stay where she is. I don’t need her quite yet...”
“And General Stigmuller has a private number he wants you to call on. He’s phoned here three times and I told him I’d get through to you. Here’s the number, sir.”
When General Weir didn’t speak for several moments, Grimes asked, “Are you all right, sir?”
“I’m trying, but they shot him in the back, John. I can’t forget that... but thanks, I’ve got the numbers.”
General Weir replaced the receiver, then gave the hotel operator the Washington number. He was connected directly with Buck Stigmuller.
“By God, Scotty, I’m so cut up about this I can’t think straight. Where the hell are you, man? Why couldn’t I reach you?”
“I’m in Chicago, Buck. I drove right up.”
“What are we going to do, Scotty? I mean, what the hell is this all about? Mark, of all people...”
“It happened, Buck,” the general said evenly. “I’ve seen him. It happened.”
“Benton’s been on the phone half the morning,” Stigmuller said. “He wants to alert the Arlington Committee. He thinks Mark should be honored that way.”
“He’s going to be buried in the police cemetery, with fellow officers. That’s what he wanted.”
“And Benton’s got his hackles up about how and where you are, Scotty. He thinks you shouldn’t be alone at this time. He wants to notify someone in Army to fly out there. Not a chaplain, for God’s sake. Just someone to help out with planning, get the names right on phone calls — there’s a lot of people don’t feel good about this, Scotty. The brass wants to know what you’re doing, how you’re taking it.”
Weir was silent until Stigmuller said, “We’re not cut off, are we?”
“No, I’m here,” Weir said. “I’m just a little surprised at Benton’s concerns. Except for my pension check, the Army hasn’t paid much attention to me in years.”
“That’s the way you wanted it, Scotty, remember that. Your decision, not ours.”
A waiter tapped on the half-open door and Weir signaled him to come in. The man set the tray on the table and brought over a check and a pen to sign the tab.
“Hold on, Buck,” Weir said into the phone and reached for the pen. A fragmented concern made him pause. “... there’s a lot of people don’t feel good about this, Scotty.”
He put his hand in his pocket and took out a ten-dollar bill. “The change is for you. I don’t want charges on my bill.”
The man smiled his appreciation and when Weir heard the door close behind him, he said into the phone, “What about the matter I called you on last night, Buck?”
“Yes, yes. I wanted to tell you about that. Benton put his Major Staub on the job. Staub ran a check and made out a report — twelve pages — and brought it in himself this morning.
“I’ve gone over every detail and gave it my own evaluation, Scotty. There is no discernible pattern in the background, assignments, performance or psychotypes that links those four dead GIs in any way. They were in Germany, yes, but at varying times and in varying areas. And as Staub pointed out to me, we have about a third of a million men over there, a lot of them are black, likely to end up in trouble. I’m being as frank as I can, Scotty. I don’t think those four Chicago murders are connected with the Army in any way.”
“Five murders, Buck, Somebody got my boy last night.”
He heard Stigmuller’s sharp intake of breath. “Tarbert, listen to me. You’re upset and you have every reason to be. But I know you. I can tell from that goddamn steel in your voice that you’re not saying what you really want to say. I’m shocked, Scotty, shocked. Let me answer your question for you.”